Flower Crowns Amid The Thorns
by sctwilightvampwolfgal
Summary: Amelia grew up around the language of flowers, grew up loving to get her hands dirty just for the joy of it and the joy that lit up others' faces at her, and so when she wants to give her boyfriend a gift, she naturally makes it herself. *Nyo!America, Nyo!France.* *Inspired off of two prompts for AmeLiet Week 2019 Day Four.*


Quiet evening barely begins to dot the sky, and still she sits, legs twisted underneath her, growing numb under the steady, barely moving weight of her hard at work. She doesn't think of anything but soothing the thorns of flowers that cling to some stems with her fingers, of the warm feeling that gushes forth like blood to her heart, warmth to the grill on a hot, Summer day, perfect for hamburgers and hot dogs and often brats.

Tiredness doesn't even come in the sloping and slanting of eyes, because all that matters is the precious task before her, the heartfelt way that every rhythm and beat of her hands reflects her heartbeat, evey stolen second like countless years before. Amelia doesn't let her eyes even want to slip shut, doesn't let her shoulders desire to drop, or her hands to still even when she begins to witness the gradual light of fireflies meeting the air, the gentle noises of light coming to life.

In a way, it's not unlike the flower shop that she's spent so many years memorizing flowers and meanings to, crafting beautiful bouquets and decadent flower crowns, wondering if everyone that came in could speak the language that she grew up on, the language of her mother hard at work, and the endless barrage of questions from a five year old. Amelia doesn't doubt that she was a handful, always snooping around the flowershop, asking Francine questions that her mother often probably didn't want to answer, but would anyway. One day, the answers were not enough anymore, and while her mind ran mental quizzes so easily over flowers and their meanings, she wanted to get her hands dirty, harvesting and growing, watering and planting, pulling flowers carefully against gentle wraps of plastic, tying pretty bows to hold it all together, and watching when her work made old women smile, young girls practically leap, and men smile that kind of relieved smile that always fell somewhere between a droop and a beam.

Amelia had loved that about her mom, loved watching her work, loved seeing that her mother's passion, one lone flowershop that she'd worked hard to open up, brought joy to so many guests. She was dizzy off of her mother's passion, the kind of life work that left her in awe and studying all the distant ways that it helped others out, even the ways that so easily slip from people's hands like steady streams of water. Amelia finally feels that slope in her back that tells her that she's been hunched over for a while, feels the crick in her fingers that lets her know that the scattered remains of flowers around her are there because of her.

There's something special about picking flowers from a meadow for someone you love, knowing just what you're looking for, trudging hours through the day to find the right ones, and sometimes bearing the coldness, the darkness, or the rain. Amelia doesn't mind when weather tells her to slow down; her step quickens despite itself. Amelia wonders if she should have just used the flowers from the shop when the chill of the night air finally hits her.

She carefully finishes tying, and she smiles at a flower crown that is fresh and homemade and brand new; she wonders if it's a terrible idea or if she derives her inspiration from countless other tales of pictures of fake ones online. She doesn't mind the replica, but she loves the homegrown or nature grown ones that her fingers can slip into crafting often with ease.

It hits her like a hidden Jack-In-The-Box as she scrambles to her feet, holding the crown loosely in her hands, spinning half on instinct back to the path that took her here, that it's late, and what if? What if her boyfriend doesn't like the gesture or finds it too girly? Or only appreciates the flowers that she's watched since seedlings grow.

* * *

It's too late to find his house under the shade of night, and of houses that always look so similar when nightfall hits them. Her mind blanks on the address anyway as she trudges up her doorstep, humming pop songs that she no longer knows the words to.

* * *

The precious work and bleeding fingers' task lays neat in her hands. It feels awkward in the gentle buzzing of the store, watching people sometimes only peek on as if to get a feel for the flowers without wandering close enough to touch. Amelia watches in stunned dazzlement as she never understood the appeal of savoring flowers from a distance, without kneading your fingers into the soil, or counting delicate inches and centimeters when plants either seem too small or hitting the kind of level of big that no one knows what to do for.

She smiles and assists when customers do finally come in, just as her mother taught her, just as her mother enjoys gentle music in the kitchen back home, not far away, and hums along to the steady sway of hips and the fingers that cling and curl in steady hands being held together, unwilling to truly part for even a second. It always looks so easy to see her parents together during the quiet moments where fighting doesn't richochet off the walls. It's the way that you realize that her parents still love each other despite the many arguments that they had over the littlest, silliest stuff.

Amelia wants that ease and that steady forgiveness, just as much as she doesn't want the arguments and the fighting that makes that forgiveness possible. Forgiveness lays flat and void when there is nothing to be forgiven.

Hours passed by in soft tick that feels like the wash of minutes, if she listens well enough. Amelia hums something that dances in tune with the clock on the wall as she waits, and finally it isn't a customer that walks through the door. The flower crown trembles in her hand as she smiles in gentle, sweet greeting.

"Hello." The word that started all great conversations and even some not so great ones, as Toris steps closer to the counter, leaving Amelia's heart in gentle tatters and excited joy that feels almost like adrenaline in the air.

"Hi." She responds, and something in the way that he smiles melts her heart and reminds her to breathe. Amelia loves him, and she wonders yet again if he'll understand her gift. For Amelia, her world had always revolved around flowers, from watching her mother work in the flowershop, to helping out with it, to the little flower garden that she raised at home, and the work that she had taken over.

"This is for you." Amelia finally speaks up, letting those old greetings fade away in the light of something better.

"Thank you," And he accepts the crown with a kind of gentle joy that doesn't stop or stutter at all. Toris's smile warms her heart in the little ways that count.

"I had to." She's grown tired of 'You're welcome's somehow in the grand scheme of things, but she knows that she couldn't not make her boyfriend a gift, a gift of natural flowers, and hours of labor in a field as her fingers slowly bleed and learned to tremble from exhaustion.

"Still, thank you." And he stepped closer, lightly leaning against the counter and over, and Amelia found herself smiling though she didn't know what he wanted her to say.

"You're welcome." Finally fell from her lips as if guided out, and staring at her boyfriend up close did not fail to turn both of their cheeks red, and Amelia had to fight back against a giddy, little giggle.

Somehow as he gently placed the flower crown in his hair, sorting it gently to rest there, Amelia felt that last overdue spark of creativity and stepped around the counter and closer to adjust it. Things made precious were inspired off of the gentle touch of love that someone else felt inspired to show lovingly.


End file.
